


caught by a low moon

by scribbleb_red



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), Cults, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Healing, M/M, Memory Loss, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Alvarez/Laila Dermott, Minor Katelyn/Aaron Minyard, Misunderstandings, Mixtape, Morocco - Freeform, Recovery, Roommates, Surfing, The Morocco AU, all for the aesthetic, look I wrote a fic where no one dies, storms and revelations, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29159337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribbleb_red/pseuds/scribbleb_red
Summary: When Jeremy Knox arrives in the famous surfing village of Taghazout, Morocco, he's looking for a chance to relax and reconnect with the ocean and the sport that he loves. He doesn't expect to come face to face with Jean Moreau, owner of the snarkiest eyebrows in California.Then again, Jean wasn't expecting to run into Jeremy "how fake is my smile today" Knox either. And he's far from pleased.It was hate at first sight, but can the Atlantic surf, desert skies, and distance from their pasts help them see past their differences? Not if either of them can help it.AKA The Morocco AU.
Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Comments: 35
Kudos: 44
Collections: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021





	1. rewind to find you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [djhedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/djhedy/gifts).



> Written for the wonderous @djhedy, whose words have always inspired and whose music taste is absolutely excellent. Thank you for introducing me to All Your Love by Flight Facilities as part of the Mixtape exchange. Sorry it's late. My roof leaked and it's not even a metaphor. 
> 
> A round of thank yous to the absolute heroes that are @fuzzballsheltiepants and @alex_who for their support throughout - especially for listening to my panic and mania on so many different occasions - I cannot say thank you enough. Also @foxholecourt for being the loveliest cheerleader and keeping me enthused about Jerejean :D Thank you so so much. 
> 
> And finally, in honour of the Mixtape vibes, I've actually created a whole playlist to accompany the story here - https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5fTN0lFmceGO8GuBLuStHy?si=0VVJenycSRq2wMKbiCfsnA 
> 
> I very much hope you enjoy.

There is a contentment in the stillness of dusk. 

The cliffside café is already full - mismatched groups of travellers and locals clustering around low tables with their wicker chairs, lounging on colourful cushioned benches. Some are dreaming, some are worrying, some are transfixed by the red and orange haze spreading upwards from the horizon. Below them, the waves beat, a hypnotic constant. The men and women sip their drinks, blow smoke from their noses, silenced by the setting sun. 

Jeremy Knox drinks the scene in, inhaling the smell of dark coffee and sweet tobacco, the kick of spice - something sharp and rich - just beginning to heat through the sea-salt evening. His clothes are crumpled and dirty. His bag is still looped over his shoulder. His body hurts from the hop-scotch journey he’s taken from San Francisco to Taghazout - flying through three cities, changing airports in New York in order to reach first Casablanca then hopping to Agadir and taxing from there to this tiny surfing village nested on the Atlantic coast of Morocco. For the last few hours all he’s thought about is how nice it’ll be to have a shower. Maybe even a bath. 

Now he finds he can’t move, can’t turn away from the wound-red colours, the extravagant and awful beauty of it. His gaze catches where the waves simmer into the sky. The water is just as red. He watches as the colour deepens, darkens like a bruise as purples bleed through. The fat drop of the sun lingers on the edge of the world and then drips over and is gone. Around him the hostel and its café begin to chatter, the hum of voices breaking over the sound of the sea. 

“Welcome to Berbere Surf,” says a voice, words lightly accented. “You’ve arrived on a beautiful evening.” 

Jeremy turns away from the ocean and the scarlet sky. He’s met by a petite woman with olive skin and a yellow hijab, her eyes dark and bright. He greets her with his patented, Labrador smile - the one he wields as sword and shield. He feels off-guard and exhausted, standing on two feet despite the best efforts of the world. So as she introduces herself and explains that she’s working reception that night, she leans into him like a flower towards the sun. And he relaxes, reassured. Like everyone else, she does not see through him. 

“I see you’ve opted for one of the apartment rooms in Bouad House instead of the hostel dorms, which is great, I’ll show you there in just a moment. If you can sign here, here and here. Great. And now let me just get you the schedule - if you see here, you can see when we have sunset yoga, breakfasts and dinner on your complimentary package… And then here, if you turn the page, yeah so when this is your first morning, we just need you to arrive ten minutes early to the surf shop, that’s _here_ on the site map, so we can get you fitted with a wetsuit and a board.” She flips through the pages of a new arrivals handbook, pointing out the timings and circling the key locations. “ _Rayie_ , well you’ve said you’re fairly experienced so I’m sure none of this will be a surprise but we have details here about the currents and tides of everywhere along this bit of coast. We share wind information every morning on the board in the café… Wonderful. Shall I show you to your room?” 

“Thank you,” he says. He runs his hand through his hair and resists the urge to grimace when he feels how greasy it is. “Am I able to join dinner tonight?” 

“Of course,” she says. Her lashes give her away as her eyes drop to his mouth. “Do you have any allergies?” 

He shakes his head. “No allergies, but I don’t eat meat.” 

“Fish?” She asks and makes a note on the papers when he nods. “No problem, we actually recommend a vegetarian or pescatarian diet here. Everything is sourced locally.”

He nods, keeping his face interested, lips turned up. He read all this on the website before he booked - or rather, his mom had read it to him - but he knows all about how frustrating it can be when people try to be clever when you’re just doing your job. He’s relieved when she finally says everything’s in order and they can actually head to his room now. 

Touching his elbow, she offers him a key. “This way is best,” she says. 

Her recommended route means walking through the café and along a cliffside path - narrow, but not worryingly so - before curving into an alley of blue and orange buildings. The door she indicates for him is set inside a keyhole arch, made of heavy wood with large gilt hinges. 

He mentally takes notes: _café, colours, keyhole; café, colours, keyhole._

He turns the key, hears the heavy thunk of the locks. They step inside, spiral up four floors and unlock an apartment at the top. It is open-plan and exquisite - mosaic stone floor, pale walls, a contemporary kitchenette tucked along one side. The furniture is all classic shapes, dark lines with cushion comforts. But the thing that really catches his eye is the balcony lining the entire side of the room, opening up over the ocean beyond. His breath catches. The sky is deep indigo now, sunset long gone. Stars are pricking in the sky, different to the ones he knows in California, cleaner and sharper too. He’s so far away from home. 

“This is the main communal space,” the woman explains. “And as you know, you’re only sharing with one other room - I’ll introduce you this evening. Your room is through here.” 

She folds back a door, revealing a spacious room - Jeremy’s eyes lock on the large bed that seems to float thanks to the artful tiling and pale gold stone. He can already imagine sinking into the mattress, burying his face in the pillows and just passing out. But the woman is talking - gesturing at the wardrobe and cabinets, the arched window facing the ocean, the fact that _this room has the best view, you will always see the sea here_. 

“I didn’t get your name,” he says as she begins to leave, finally leaving him free to settle. “Sorry, I know you told me before. Jetlag.” 

“Nafisa,” she says. “You’ll see me around.” 

_Nafisa. Nafisa. Nafisa_. He tells himself three times he’ll remember. He tells himself it’s the truth.

***

Over the next half hour, Jeremy unpacks. He brushes his teeth, discovers the huge outside shower that he’ll share with his roommate for the next few weeks and decides dinner can wait. He scrubs down, borrowing their shampoo when he realises he’s forgotten his own. As his nose fills with citrus and sandalwood, he hopes they won’t mind. It’s fancy, this stuff, and he likes it. Maybe if he smiles just right, they’ll let him borrow it again.

Clean, albeit not entirely refreshed, he goes to dinner, knowing he needs to eat if he’s going out on the water tomorrow. He locks up, drags up the memory of _keys, colours, cliffs,_ and finds himself back in the café. A helpful waiter points him towards a set of stairs and he wends his way upwards, the sound of more and more voices growing closer. He flips errant curls out of his eyes and finds himself on a terrace full of people who are clearly all there for the surf camp. Pink cheeks show where the wind and sea sprayed away their sunscreen; sprawling limbs indicate tiredness and satisfaction; there’s a general sense of triumph, achingly familiar. He nods at a few people as he passes, finds himself being offered a mix of bright grins and cattish smirks in return. More than one gaze lingers and he makes note of every one of them. 

_Perhaps,_ he thinks. _Perhaps._

The food smells amazing - rich and sultry, diametrically opposed to his mother’s kitchen yet warm with the same thoughtful attention and love of spice. But as he finds a plate and thanks the chef, he hears a voice. One that he knows. One that he loathes. 

And he freezes. Because there it is again. A dry rasping laugh, distinct and familiar as the waves crashing against the shore back in California. 

_He can’t be here_ , his brain thinks. _Not here. Not him._

But when he turns, he finds a familiar profile - tall and dark, a face with features too strong to be handsome and eyes too clever to be kind. 

Jean Moreau sits between the group of fellow surfers, looking right at home. His skin has a sun-kissed glow, suggesting he’s been here for a few days, and Jeremy isn’t so tired not to notice the cynical tilt of his chin, the wry smirk and the way he leans away from the conversation, arms crossed, unwelcoming. Even in such an atypical setting it’s so typically Moreau - someone who has never been anything but horrible to Jeremy - and he knows, without doubt, this isn’t some trick of the light. It isn’t some horror conjured by his sleep-deprived brain. This is real. He’s on holiday. He’s a million miles from everyone and everything he’s ever loved. And yet somehow he’s ended up in the same tiny Moroccan surfing village as Jean ‘I ate snark for breakfast’ Moreau, one of the rudest, coldest, most frustrating and pernicious men that he’d ever had the displeasure of calling an acquaintance. 

Jeremy backs away, not willing to engage when he’s so exhausted, so out of sorts. He finds a table back the way he came, but as he settles and introduces himself to the cluster of guests who’ve made space for him, he only half listens. His mind whirs, wondering how this could have happened. Realisation drops with the same suddenness as the sun over the horizon.

 _Jean is Kevin’s friend_ , Jeremy grasps. It all makes sense when he puts Kevin and Jean together. They’d known each other for years, after all, grown up together in that awful cult in Virginia. If Kevin was going to give Jeremy advice on where to holiday and ‘find some headspace’, of course, he’d also mention that place to someone like Moreau. Hell, if anyone needed a surf camp, it was the Frenchman. The man wouldn’t know fun if it literally ran up behind him and grabbed him by the arse. 

“So, Jeremy right? Welcome to Hash Point! Done much surfing before?” asks one of the girls at his table. Her name is Sara Alvarez and she has the same toothy smile as his sisters. She’s leaning into a woman at her side, their every edge aligned against every curve - the two of them propping each other up as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

“Grew up on the water with my dad,” Jeremy says with a nod and a grin, letting himself be pulled into the conversation. “Never been out this way though. You been here long?” 

The evening continues. People come and go, the conversation ebbs and wanes. But even with talk of Immesouane’s endless right-hand curl, Jeremy can’t shake the knowledge that Jean Moreau is only metres away. 

Nor can he fully ignore the tingling spider sense that he’s being watched. 

***

At the exact moment that Jeremy strikes up a conversation with Sara Alvarez and her girlfriend Laila Dermot, the object of his inattention has noticed his existence. 

It starts with a flickering glance that catches on honey-gold curls. Jean looks twice because those curls are wild and beautiful. He follows the lick of them around an ear, over the back of a honey-gold throat. And then he sees it - the tattoo poking from the top of a t-shirt. Horribly, wrenchingly familiar. 

“ _Merde,”_ he says before he can stop himself. 

“What’s that?” asks Aaron, turning away from where Katelyn had been speaking to look at him. “Did you say something?” 

“ _Non_ ,” Jean says. “Well, yes, but it doesn’t matter. Just fairly certain that’s someone from university.” 

“Someone who bothers you?” 

_Yes,_ Jean thinks, _Jeremy Knox might be the fakest person he’s ever met._ But he deflects with a lift of his eyebrow. _“_ Just someone I wasn’t expecting.” He sips his beer and lets his eyes drift down the slope of Jeremy’s spine. There’s no mistaking him. “I’m surprised if you’ve not met him. He’s a friend of Kevin’s. Jeremy Knox?” 

Aaron pulls a face, not quite a frown. “Rings a bell. Is he a history friend or a sports friend?” 

“Both,” Jean says. “Knox is the one who introduced Kevin to Peloton.” 

Aaron had shared a room with Kevin at Palmetto State until he started on the pre-med track and decided to room with other medics. He was intimately familiar with the various health fads that Kevin had tried out over the years - his spinning phase being just one of them. He was less well-acquainted with the friends he’d gathered since moving out, least of all those that went to school with Jean and therefore likely lived on the opposite coast. Still, there is one niggling memory he feels comfortable enough to mention. “Is he the one with the smile?” 

“Ha, yes, that’s the one,” Jean says. _The One With The Smile, indeed_. 

Katelyn has pulled out her phone and taps into the wifi so she can stalk Kevin’s social media pages and find out who Jean is talking about. “Are you sure it’s him?” She tilts her head, looking at the photos she’s found in a scarily short amount of time. “Doesn’t he look kinda skinnier? Like, not as… twunky?” 

“It’s him,” Jean says. “Same tattoos, look.” He takes the phone and scrolls down a bit further before shoving it back at Katelyn. It’s a photo of Jeremy at the beach - the black California sand stretching into the distance, his hair haloed by the sun as he smiles over his shoulder. Along the length of his spine is a tattoo, shaped like a surfboard and filled with intricate geometric waves. An origami ship sits between his shoulder blades. Jean has always wondered if - with a stretch or a twist or a flex - that little ship might seem to rise and fall on the high seas of Jeremy’s skin.

Katelyn, however, doesn’t look at the photo, not straight away. “You’ve stalked him before,” she says. “You knew exactly what to look for.” 

Lifting his eyes to the heavens, Jean sighs. “Blame Kevin.”

“Blame Kevin?” Her mouth is twitching now and Aaron seems to be twigging too. “Jean, we may not have known you that long but one thing I do know is that you don’t bother remembering anything that doesn’t interest you. Do you like this guy?” 

Aaron, peering over her shoulder, shows only a little discomfort. “He’s good looking, I guess. Nicky would go there.” 

“Nicky is happily married.” 

“Babe, you know what I mean.” 

“I do, but right now we’re talking about Jean. So…” Katelyn presses. “Are you like… into this guy?” 

Jean snorts. “Absolutely not,” he says. “Knox is vapid, self-absorbed, insecure. The first time I met him, he was introduced to me no less than five times and on every occasion, he asked me the same questions, smiled the same smile, acted like I was some chancer pretending to know Kevin. I am sure it was some petty ploy.” 

He remembers the night keenly. The anxiety. The embarrassment. The shame. Kevin had come to visit USC to see how Jean was fitting in - which wasn’t well. Growing up the way they had, it wasn’t so much of a surprise that Jean was struggling, but Kevin wanted to take him out. To show him how good things could be when he let himself socialise like a normal person, to just relax and drink and listen to music and forget, for a little while, that they’d spent years believing that the outside world - this real and vibrant world - didn’t exist. 

“Just come on. One night,” Kevin had said. “I know some really great people here that I can introduce you to.” 

And Jean, who had never been able to say no to Kevin, had agreed. He’d allowed Kevin to dress him up and drag him off campus, down to a bar where the drinks were cheap and the music loud. That was where he first saw Jeremy Knox - impossibly handsome, glowing gold even in the dim light. His smile was a candle and the crowd fluttered with moth-like adoration around him. Kevin had pushed through the crowd and Jean had felt his heart jackrabbiting in his chest, beating so fast he was sure it would punch straight through his ribs.

Jeremy had been nothing but light and smiles that first time, with Kevin there at his side. It was all: “So great to meet you. You’re going here now? What do you study? Love it, yes. All the sexiest people are in the humanities. Tell me I’m wrong.” His smile was infectious. Having his attention felt like the first rays of a spring sun after a long winter. 

_Mesmerising_ , Jean had thought. For a moment, he’d hoped - for a new friend, for something he didn’t dare put a name to yet - and he’d answered easily, willingly. Kevin had been far too pleased. 

But then Kevin was subsumed into the crowd and Jean ended up at the bar alone and he’d been relieved to see Jeremy when he slid in next to him - right up until the golden boy had blown him off as if they’d never met. “Do I know you? You’re Kevin’s friend? Are you sure? Great to meet you then. What do you study? Literature, love it. Sexiest students in humanities.” 

Over the course of five more hours, three more bars and innumerable drinks, the scene had replayed. Every time Jean found himself face-to-face with Jeremy, it was to skepticism and a shiny, vacant smile. It was petty and it was cruel. Every time Jean thought he’d found his footing, Knox stripped it from him - made him feel small and unwelcome and uneasy. By the time there were calls to go to the beach, all he’d wanted to do was go back to his dorm, back to his safe little box, and pretend the night never happened. Kevin, of course, hadn’t let him. 

“You gave me tonight,” Kevin had said. And so Jean’s misery continued. 

It had been one of the worst nights of his new life - feeling so wretched and hopeless, like maybe he’d never fit into this world, never make it on the outside. He couldn’t imagine ever being as free and loose-limbed as Kevin. He couldn’t fathom surviving if he’d be forever battling for a place against men like Jeremy Knox. For a few moments, as the crowds stirred around him and the night yawned on, he missed the Nest and its endless tunnels. It might have been hell, but he knew his role there, his position was fixed in ink. 

Now, under a Moroccan sky, he touches his cheek where a number three has been inked over. The curves have been transformed from a brand into a small swallow, one of several winging over his throat and ribs and hips. The places he needed to reclaim. 

“You really don’t like him,” Katelyn says. She doesn’t miss the shadows in his eyes, the subconscious inward curl of his body, but she still sounds dubious. “Hopefully you’ll be able to avoid him.” 

“Yeah, man, what’s the likelihood of him being in our group anyway? It’s obvious from his socials that he’s a better surfer than we’ll ever be,” adds Aaron. 

“Speak for yourself,” Katelyn says. She’s actually not bad on the water and won’t let them forget it. “But it is a good point. We’re only beginners. You probs won’t see him much at all.” 

Jean nods. It makes sense. But he can’t shake the feeling that fate is playing a game with him these days. He’s come a long way, and he knows he has far further to go. Knox, he resolves, won’t stop him from enjoying this holiday. He won’t take away from his first time abroad the way he did from his first night out. He’s not a terrified recluse anymore. He’s working on himself. He’s alive and more than he ever thought he could be.

“Anyway, you’ve got us,” Katelyn says. “If he’s an ass to you, I’m sure Aaron can do his best Andrew impression and scare him off.” 

“Hun, you are far more terrifying than I will ever be,” says Aaron, leaning over to kiss her temple. 

And because she’s as much a product of Palmetto as Kevin or Neil or the twins, Katelyn preens. 

Jean finds his lips quirking upwards even as his eyes stray over to Jeremy once again. The spark of irritation is still there, but the simmer of remembered hurt and disappointment fades. 

Tilting his chin, he takes his attention over the terrace, along the horizon. He breathes in the Atlantic air, cool over his skin, sweet as it hits his tongue, his lungs, his belly. He exhales.

 _Jeremy Knox could be the most dazzling man on earth_ , he thinks, _but he cannot and will not ruin this holiday_. 


	2. in high tide and cold water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re roommates,” he whispers as he goes about his morning rituals. “Because of course we are.” 

*

The first test of Jean’s resolve comes the very next morning. 

He’s used to his bathroom being empty. It’s the floor above Katelyn and Aaron and he’d wanted to have his own space - or at least a modicum of it - by opting for a shared suite rather than bunking in one of the cheaper hostel rooms in the main house. So imagine his surprise when, against the ever-rising odds, he found one very wet, very naked man in his shower. 

And not just any man, of course -  _ no, no -  _ nothing was ever that simple for Jean. Because Fate was the kind of asshole who liked to pick him up and play with him like a feral cat with a baby rabbit, the very wet, very naked, very attractive man in his shower was none other than Jeremy Knox. Knox, whose skin glistens gold, and whose tattoo wends so intricately down his spine, and whose stupidly perfect bubble butt is currently flexing under the spray.  _ The origami boat does move on the waves, just as Jean predicted.  _ Every time his hands wash over his shoulders, down his stomach, rinsing bubbles from his skin. 

Jean would have turned away - he  _ would _ have - but then he sees the soap uncapped on the shelf, scoffing before he can stop himself. “ _ Tu te fous de moi…” _

“Wha— Oh!” Knox spins, scandalised and sudsy, hands flying out to steady himself as he almost slips on the stone floor. He rights himself, mouth opening and closing, his face turning first pink with embarrassment and then pale with what looks a lot like anger. He doesn’t make a move to conceal himself, unashamed as ever. “What are you… what are you doing?” 

Jean raises one eyebrow and says nothing. 

Knox scowls. There is nothing sunshiny about him like this. He is wet, curls flattened to his skull, eyes narrowed and angry. “Don’t you understand privacy?” 

Jean tenses. The truth is  _ yes _ and  _ no _ \- he’d lacked any kind of privacy for over a decade after his parents joined the commune at Castle Evermore, leaving him at the Nest. He values it now, craves it even. Locked doors. Quiet havens. Yet the way Knox asks feels deliberate. Like he knows about Evermore, the horrors that took place there. 

_ Kevin must have told him _ . His chest constricts. His teeth clench.  _ How much would Kevin have told him?  _

“Well?” Knox says, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a fluffy green towel from the rack. “Nothing?” 

“You’re using my soap,” says Jean. “I’d like it if you didn’t.” 

“This is about soap? I’ll buy some later if it’s that big a deal.” Looking increasingly frustrated, Knox fixes the towel around his waist. Soap bubbles perch on his shoulder. Over his chest are more tattoos, small and intricate things reminiscent of architectural designs or Lino cuts - all fine dark lines and exquisite detail. Jean forces himself to look away. 

“Are you done?” He asks.

Knox, who cannot raise one eyebrow, raises both. They shoot up into his hairline and his lips part, incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“ _ Mais non _ , that would be you. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Jean tips his chin as he speaks, gesturing at the sink that Knox has taken a few steps forward to block. All he wants is five minutes for his teeth. After four days here, he already knows that showering right before trying to put on a wetsuit is a fool’s mission. 

With a huff, Knox vanishes out of the bathroom. Jean hears a thump of his door closing and he releases a sigh through his teeth. The month ahead, which just yesterday was so vibrant and new, warps and stretches before him - interminable in the knowledge that he will not be able to simply ignore Knox’s existence. 

“We’re roommates,” he whispers as he goes about his morning rituals. “Because of course we are.” 

*

They’re also, it turns out, grouped together for surfing, as the instructors explain that the wind means the best beach is one that’s good for all experience levels. Squashed into the same bus, they end up sitting on either side of the aisle, careful to not catch each other’s eye. In front of him, Katelyn and Aaron offer apologetic eyes after they arrive too late to save Jean from the awkwardness. He shrugs one shoulder, a silent promise to talk later. 

Jeremy doesn’t miss the exchange. He understands that look perfectly. Is intimately familiar with the roll of eyes that means  _ look what we’re stuck with,  _ the twisted mouth of  _ god how annoying _ . He’s not used to it being directed at him, not anymore, but he speaks the language of cliques. 

Turning away, he rests his head on the window and watches Morocco rushing by. On one side is desert scrub, distant mountains tumbling across the horizon. On the other is a dark blue ocean and a bright blue sky. Their guide has turned up the radio and the beat of the music slips beneath his ribs. Each note is warm in his sternum, conjuring memories of long summer drives, the kind taken for no reason except to drift and dream. 

“What’s this song?” He asks. 

“ _ Time _ by Jack Garratt,” calls back Sara Alvarez. He hadn’t recognised her before, but he sees the lettering on her varsity hoodie, putting today and last night together. He meets her grin as she twists back in her seat. “Alright there Jez? Ready for your first day?” 

“Absolutely,” he says, ignoring how Moreau has gone still across the aisle. “Where are we headed?” 

“Aourir,” she tells him. “Banana Point. Laila caught the earlier bus with Anäis, apparently it’s perfect.” 

He smiles and she smiles back. He is excited. He’s been looking forward to this for months now - to get back on the water, to be somewhere new and fresh and clean. Wetsuit slung over his knees, bag between his leg, board strapped to the roof, he feels anticipation in his gut - can almost imagine the rise and drop of the water already, gravity swooping through him and the roaring wave in his ears. 

“Can’t wait,” he says. 

“Don’t have to,” says Sara. “We’re here.”

They were rumbling up a track road, bumping and lurching over sand and stone and scrub. Jeremy leans forward. He wants to see it - see the sea and its savage glitter - and his heart stops when the engine is cut, the music dies, and all that’s left is the view of the beach - wide and curling and being beaten by the waves. 

Surfers are already out there, specks of coloured confetti bobbing on the blue green water. Yearning, deep and familiar, spreads from Jeremy’s chest to his throat, his hands, his stomach. He needs to be out there. He needs it like air. 

But first there’s the unpacking, the offloading of the van and the traipse down the sand dunes to the beach. They make a camp and Sara draws him over to help with suncream and the zipper of her borrowed wetsuit. “Don’t get me wrong,” she says. “I’m enjoying this, but I’m more of a kite surfer than a surf surfer. This is more Laila’s vibe.” 

He laughs, thinks of the electric coloured kites he’s seen with increasing frequency back in California, the way the people riding them seem to fly. “Kite surfing looks incredible. Maybe you can teach me.” 

“Not round here,” she says. “That water isn’t made for racing. But if you fancy a day trip to Essaouira or Tamraght, I’d be more than happy to show you the basics.” 

The rules and risks of the beach wash over him, listened to just enough to know the rip tides and the currents. The group splits up into those who are more experienced and those who are learning. Moreau and his friends go straight to the white water and there’s relief in that. He won’t be surfing with them today. Jeremy finds himself on the lip of the shore, waves rushing up to his toes and retreating. His breathing is deep, his body zings with anticipation. Here is a sea that he has never been in before. Here is an ocean without any memories, one that is free of loss or expectation. 

“Looking good,” Sara says, eyeing the sea. He loves the rattle in her voice, the smile in her tone. She points: “Laila’s out there. Wanna join?” 

The grin he shares with her is honest. “Let’s do this.” 

When Jeremy says he grew up on the water, he means it. He feels more at peace, more himself, in high tides and cold water. His dad, Kano, had been an Islander, addicted to the sea and every form of boat or board that let him harness it. He had been sensible and strong, loving his children with a fierceness and devotion that was only matched by the love of his wife. Kano took them all on long sailing trips as infants, telling stories of wild adventures on the high seas, pirates and voyagers. He taught all six of them to swim, one by one, from Jeremy’s eldest sister to youngest nibling. And when they were old enough, he’d bought them their first boards and taken them out for long mornings bobbing on the waves, endless afternoons of white water and green surf. All of those times - the proud, the quiet, the exhausted, the complete - took place far far away from this beach, but they are with him all the same as Jeremy wades out into the waves and began to paddle.

The sea here is beautifully blue, his board gliding easily on the surface as his fingertips run along the water’s skin. His heart pounds with excitement and happiness. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be out surfing in the ocean, getting locked in on a wave and just riding it out as the water surrounds him. He hadn’t had much chance in the weeks before coming out here - too caught up in final exams and graduation, packing up and moving out. 

Being out here, surrounded by strangers on the Atlantic shore, feels like coming home though in a way. Familiar and freeing. He straddles his board, drinking in the dozens of fellow surfers and grinning. Three foot swells. Twenty-one second intervals. A light off-shore breeze. 

“This place is perfect,” he calls to Sara, waving when he sees that she’s found Laila as well. She’s lying on her board, looking satiated already. “How long have you been our here?” 

“A couple hours. First bus is at 6am if you ever want to join,” she says. “This next one looks good, you want it?” 

“Is that a trick question?” He’s already slipped down into position, turning smoothly into place. He watches the wave rise behind him, feels the power of it surging beneath him. He remembers that he’s good at this. That excited thrill that he lives for spirals through his body as he paddles, paddles, paddles. 

The board catches. Springing to his feet, he laughs and whoops, doing an easy bottom turn to drop into the wave. He snaps the board up, spraying a prismatic arc of water over the top of the board before dipping back down. He carves along the wave, cutting up and down just because he can. 

_ Best feeling in the world _ , his dad had said once. He hadn’t been lying. 

He tricks and rides, catching as much of the wave as he can. He can’t help his grin. Time vanishes like the water below him. There’s nothing but the sea. The waves. Jeremy lets himself go and flies.

*

Learning to surf was Aaron’s idea. 

A drunken, hilarious, half-thought idea that they’d come up with one night near the end of finals. 

They’d been studying together, a collaboration organised by Kevin (obviously) because where Jean was failing his science modules, Aaron was struggling with the required literature classes he had to take to get into pre-med. It wasn’t a match made in heaven, not at first. They were too spiky for it to be easy, too stubborn to admit that it was a good idea. Slow and sure as the tide eroding the coast, they’d realised that this set up benefited them both and that they had far more in common than they had differences. So despite the geographical divide, they’d become friends. Best of friends. Katelyn joined the mix and somehow that worked too. They adored Jean and he adored them. And he’d said so a million times that night whilst his tongue was loose with exhaustion and cheap booze, their video link open and the three of them sprawled, talking about everything and nothing.

“If this works,” Katelyn had said, “We need to do something to celebrate. Do something we’ve never done before.” 

“That’s a long list, Katkin,” Jean replied, only slurring a little. “A long, long, long list.” 

“Yes, we all know about your tragic childhood in a cult,” she said. “Still, you guys have worked so hard and what? Met twice IRL? You’ve never even seen me.” 

“A travesty, I know."

There was a pause, deep and ponderous, the kind that only happens after too much booze. 

“Surfing,” Aaron said. “Have never gone surfing.” 

“ _ Nonnnn _ …” Jean said. “Something not in California,  _ s’il tu plais _ .” 

“We don’t have to learn in California. There’s lotsa places.” 

“We can go anywhere. I bet we could learn in Europe. We could go to France.” 

Jean shuddered. He didn’t know how he felt about France anymore - whether it was home or a foreign country; if he was ready to find out. 

“Let’s look online for best surfing,” Aaron suggested when Katelyn’s idea met with silence. “Like look it talks about Hawaii. South Africa. Mexico.” 

“Some of these look amazing but wow price tag alert,” Katelyn mused. “What about for beginners?” 

Over half an hour, they’d haggled back and forth on places, finally settling on Morocco when Aaron recognised a name that Kevin once mentioned and they’d messaged him to confirm. Taghazout. A former hippie paradise. A surfer’s Mecca. 

Standing waist-deep in the Atlantic, hair tangling around his face, salt on his lips, Jean thinks it might have been the best idea they’ve ever had. Sure, Knox was a somewhat unwelcome addition to the lineup, but there was a good chance they weren’t going to have to interact outside their room, especially since he definitely wasn’t graduating to green waves any time soon. 

“Fuuuuuhhh, look I’m doing it!” Aaron’s voice calls across the water and Jean looks up just in time to see his friend crouching low on this board and riding a nice shallow wave into shore. Aaron jumps off when the fin begins to drag and he gives an excited yell, waving back at Jean and Katelyn. “Did you see it?” 

“We saw it, babe,” Katelyn yells, smiling widely at Aaron before giving Jean a look. “Your turn.” 

“In the epic battle of Jean versus the ocean, I think we know who's winning.” But he’s turning and sliding onto his board, beginning to paddle out as they’ve been taught, readying for the next breaking wave. He’s already sustained a bump or two this morning, but he knows he’ll get back up. There’s something addictive in all this, something calming in the total lack of pressure. He’s not good, probably never will be, but that’s ok. He doesn’t have to be. It’s the first time in his life where perfection hasn’t even been mentioned. 

Duck diving beneath the waves, he finds a spot and awkwardly paddles the board into position, popping up just enough to keep an eye on the breaking water. He knows he needs to start paddling but he figures he should wait for a good wave, one that gives him a modicum of a chance at standing up. 

“Jean!” Katelyn yells over the rushing sea. “Look, look!” 

He sees it. It’s a perfect, swelling, breaking wave and it’s going to be his. He begins to paddle, hard enough that he drowns out Katelyn’s cheers of support. He feels his board catch and he’s popping up, gravity almost in the right place for once and he’s up and he’s moving, standing atop the wave and he looks up in delight. But Katelyn isn’t cheering - perhaps she never was - she’s looking over his shoulder and waving, wailing his name. 

Jean turns his head. He wobbles, loses balance. Before he falls, all he sees is the crashing wave, the blade of another board careening towards him. He goes under. 

He throws his hands up and feels a board bash against his fingers. He plummets through the water, the force of the wave flipping him over and over. His shoulder collides with the ocean floor, the impact sending pain through his arm and it feels like he’s hitting rock instead of sand. He opens his mouth to cry out, but water rushes in and he’s suddenly very aware that he can’t breathe, that he’s several feet underwater, that his leg is tangled in the leash and he can’t tell if the rush is in his head or the water. There’s a split second where he thinks, _this is it, this is how I die_. The wave rolls him again, his hands scrabble at the sand. He’s going to drown. 

But then the ocean is spitting him upwards and hands have found his arms and he’s being dragged out of the sea, spluttering and choking. 

“Jean! Jean!” He can hear Katelyn and Aaron but they’re far away. He wants to turn towards the person holding him but keeps choking up more water as they drag him inland. When he’s able to stand again, he retches out the last of the water and sucks in a breath. 

“Jesus, are you okay? Moreau, are you alright?” 

_ That voice.  _

Jean looks over his shoulder and finds wide hazel eyes staring back at him. Today they look bluer than green and they’re… concerned? 

“Did you hit your head? You stood up right in front of me,” Knox says.“What were you thinking? Did you even look at what you were doing?” 

“What was I thinking?  _ You _ nearly killed me,” Jean replies, heat rising in his chest, fast and sure. “Aren’t you meant to be  _ good _ at this? Didn’t you look what you were doing?” 

Jeremy scoffs and upon closer inspection, he looks more irritated than worried. “You were hidden by the waves. How was I supposed to know you were there?”

“Really? You couldn’t see me and the bright red beginners board bobbing right there?” 

“I couldn’t see you. You need to pay attention to where you’re dropping in.” 

“I’m not the one who nearly crashed his board into someone’s skull.” 

“God, you’re insufferable.” 

“Careful, Knox, your true self is showing.” 

“What the hell is your problem with me?” 

“You seriously have to ask?” Jean sneers, raking his eyes over Jeremy as if judging every atom of his existence. “ _ Putain _ , you’re even more of a shit than I expected if you don’t remember.” 

“ _ You don’t remember _ ,” Jeremy repeats, flushing hot and angry. “Of course I don’t remember. I—” He stops himself, breathes in and out. Jean waits for him to continue, to say something more but he clams up, mouth twisting over his teeth. He takes a step back. “I won’t apologise again,” he says. “Pay attention next time.” 

Jean grits his teeth. How could Knox apologise again when he didn’t even do so successfully the first time? He’s about to say as much when Knox starts to walk away, wading back out into the waves and duck diving as soon as it’s deep enough. 

“Jean, oh my god, are you hurt?” Katelyn’s voice draws him back to himself and he finds her and Aaron rushing through the waves to help him. “Where did he go? He nearly ran you over. That asshole.” 

The pain in his shoulder and hands comes back to the fore as his anger dissipates. He’s not bleeding, he knows that much, but he hurts and he knows his shoulder is going to feel it for the next few days. He lets his friends lead him from the water, press hot, sweet tea into his hands. He lets them look after him. But his eyes never stray from the boy on the blue board, dancing atop the surf like he hadn’t nearly brained Jean in the middle of the beach. Like this was nothing. Like he was nothing. 

*

Time at the beach is a warped thing, tidal in the way it comes and goes. Days fly by with Jeremy losing himself to the sea, quickly befriending the little circle of surfers who wait on the swell, hoping for the next chance to drop in. He starts going out with Laila on the third day, rising early and riding hard enough that by lunch he is one large ache and not even sweet mint tea can revive him entirely. Soon a week has past and they’re mid-way through the second and Jeremy feels more himself than he has in longer than he can remember. 

_ Not that that’s saying much _ , he thinks rather ruefully. He rolls his neck, feels the sun against his skin and sighs.

“Ready to head out again?” Laila asks, sipping her tea.

Jeremy hums. He’s watching Moreau and his little friends in the surf. They’re improving, especially the girl, but none of them have braved the bigger waves yet. It’s funny really, watching them from out here. They’re enjoying themselves, simply playing, carefree in a way that’s unexpected. When Moreau smiles, it does something to his face and it’s not wholly unpleasant. 

“That your roommate?” Laila comments. “He’s not very good, is he?” 

“No, but he’s getting there,” says Jeremy. “He needs to bring his head up, stop looking at his feet.” 

The two of them watch from the shore, both relishing the heat from the sun on their skin. 

“You have history with him right?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

She shrugs. “The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. Sara noticed first, but you both get this look on your face when you think no one else is watching.” 

He smiles. “Really now?” He’s managed to avoid Moreau as much as possible since that first disastrous morning, only occasionally running into him at the Hash Point bar or the café at breakfast. They’ve not taken the same bus since and they’ve sat as separately as possible when it comes to packed lunches on the beach. But on those few and far between occasions, he can’t say the result has been pretty. They’ve bickered and griped, snapped and snarled. Moreau holds a grudge, and Jeremy can’t say he blames him. He doesn’t know what the other man’s problem is beyond their almost accident - isn’t sure he really wants to find out - but he does know that the person he becomes around Moreau isn’t very nice. Because when Moreau clenches his jaw, Jeremy feels a victory like nothing in this world. When Moreau raises that obnoxious eyebrow, something shrivels inside him like a slug on salt. They’re awful when they’re together. 

“He went to the same college as me. We have some friends in common.” 

“It’s more than that.” She gives him a look that’s patently unimpressed. “And you’re a terrible liar so you’d better give me a better story. Or tell me to fuck off if it’s none of my business. Whatever.” 

“I’m not going to tell you to fuck off.” 

“Then, sweet Sheherazade, tell me a story.” She jerks her chin towards the water where Jean is wobbling on his board, all long limbs and Bambi balance. 

“There isn’t a story. He just… doesn’t like me.”

“Doesn’t like  _ you?” _

_ “ _ It happens.” 

“Does it? You’re like the most likable person I’ve ever met. It’s awful. I resent it.” 

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, tone dry. “But yeah, that’s it. A mutual friend introduced us but since the very beginning, he’s hated me. Always rude. Always glowering from the corner. I dunno…” He pushes his feet into the sand, crunching his toes downwards. “I don’t think I help. I know things were tough for him growing up. I want to be understanding. Patient. Y’know? But he has this way of getting under my skin. He just brings out the worst in me too. So even when I think about trying to do something good, to try and reach out because I don’t want him to  _ not like me _ , he’ll just do this stupid thing with his eyebrows or like act all smug or I don’t know,  _ open his mouth _ …” 

Jeremy glanced at Laila and caught her expression. “You’re laughing at me.” 

“Oh yes,” Laila says. “Yes, I am. You know, Sara and I met on rival lacrosse teams? We hated each other at first too.” 

“What?” 

“I’m just saying there’s a fine line.” 

“Me and Jean are nothing like you and Sara.” 

“You sure?” She asks. “Because from where I’m standing, I see  _ sparks _ . But, enough of this, you coming back out or not?” 

Jeremy looks at his feet buried in the sand, wiggles his toes until they’re visible again. “Feeling pretty tired from this morning, I might just lounge here a bit longer.” 

“Well don’t waste the whole afternoon. Gotta catch those last few waves before the storm blows in.” 

“Storm?”

“Yeah,” Laila says, rolling her shoulders and rising to her feet. She’s already pulling her wetsuit back on, turning her back for him to zip her up. “Weren’t you listening to the briefing today? There’s a storm blowing in this evening. Tomorrow’s likely a write-off.” 

Jeremy looks at the water. His stomach clenches, twists. He doesn't want to think about a storm. He doesn’t want to miss a single wave. But when he stretches, he can feel the soreness of his muscles, the tiredness beneath his skin. “I’ll meet you out there. Think I’ll nap for a bit.” 

“Wear sunscreen,” she says. She picks up the board, blocking his sun for a moment. The sudden shade is cool and unwelcome. “And think about it. With Moreau.” 

He’s tempted to throw sand at her. Instead, he groans and flops back on his towel, listening to her laugh as she leaves. She clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about.  _ Him and Moreau, what a joke. _


	3. now see right and see through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the shower, Jeremy washes off the sea salt on his skin and wishes he could so easily clean himself of the static in his lungs, the panic brewing under his skin. Wrangling himself into jeans and a warm navy sweater that still smells of home, he tells himself he’s ready to go. He can face this. 
> 
> And then he glances out to sea, out through the giant glass doors to the balcony that overlook so much sky. And the world flashes white. 
> 
> Lightning.

*

The storm blows through that evening and Jeremy feels the prickle of tension in his shoulders growing as the clouds gather and the wind picks up. The view from the cliffside café empties of surfers by the time it comes to sunset drinks, mostly because there isn’t a sun to surf under. The clouds are thick, their bellies twidark and full. Any minute now the rain will come. He promises his friends he’ll see them at dinner but his stomach is twisting and hunger has never been further from his mind.

In the shower, Jeremy washes off the sea salt on his skin and wishes he could so easily clean himself of the static in his lungs, the panic brewing under his skin. Wrangling himself into jeans and a warm navy sweater that still smells of home, he tells himself he’s ready to go. He can face this.

And then he glances out to sea, out through the giant glass doors to the balcony that overlook so much sky. And the world flashes white.

 _Lightning_.

Jeremy whimpers, cowers, backs away from the windows until he’s pressed down into the corner of the room. He knows what’s next. But knowing doesn’t help him. The room booms with thunder, shaking the walls - or maybe that’s just him. He can’t move anymore. He hates this. With the next flash and bang, his limbs lock. His joints turn to stone. He cannot move. He cannot think.

As the rain begins to roar down on the ocean, he squeezes his eyes closed and prays for the storm to pass.

*

Jean loves the rain. He’d missed it all those years in the tunnels below Evermore. He missed the cool kiss of drizzle, missed the sting-sharp pikels of rain that wasn’t quite hail. He missed the smell of it - the musky petrichor of an oncoming storm. He missed the aftermath, the scent of hot earth that had been cooled, of the sea air refreshed and clean.

At first, the rain reminded him of _before_ , of Marseille and the small house in _le Panier_ where his family had lived. Run down but brightly coloured, their home had been a small apartment above his maman’s trinket shop that always smelt of lavender and cardamom. His room had been in the attic and when the rain came, that vicious _mistral_ rain, he’d lain on his bed, listening to the sound with his windows thrown wide so he could smell it all, breath it in. _Maman_ had hated that but as soon as she wasn’t looking, his windows would be open again. Life had been a simple thing back then - his biggest worries being school work and feigning attention in church. He hadn’t known what horrors can live behind a smile back then.

These days, it doesn’t remind him so much of a childhood long lost or attic rooms or life _before_. He has years of new memories that are his and his alone. The night he escaped it was raining, so was the morning he reconnected with Kevin, but he treasures the smaller memories even more - the coffee runs, the forgotten umbrellas, the trainers that leaked, the boots that didn’t, his first date in California, the time he sat on the library steps talking with Aaron and waiting for a squall to pass. Those were the moments where he’d realised he was living again, not just surviving. The rain reminded him that he was free.

At dinner, he’s smiling. He’s chatting idly with Aaron and Katelyn when one of the girls he always sees hanging around with Knox approaches their table. She’s the scarier one, the one with the smile like sugar, _Sara_. She wants to know if they’ve seen sunshine boy and Jean roles his eyes.

“He’s usually with you, isn’t he?” Aaron says. All warmth is gone from his face and he looks eerily like his evil twin.

“Yeah,” she says and Jean has to admit that she looks worried. “But he said he’d meet us for drinks and dinner, and he never showed. He was a bit out of sorts earlier so… and I know you’re roommates, and I just wondered…”

“I haven’t been back to the room evening,” Jean says. “We came straight here for coffee and stayed.”

Her face falls. She looks out at the weather, mouth twisting. “He wouldn’t have walked along the cliffside in this right? There’s no way he’d have fallen?”

Jean realises that she’s more than worried and wonders why. “It’s narrow along there but it’d be difficult to slip, there’s a rail along the path.”

Sara’s girlfriend materialises at her side. This one, Jean doesn’t mind so much, she’s not smiling. Her eyes are sharp and clever. Laila asks, slipping an arm around Sara’s waist. “No luck, babe?” Sara shakes her head and Laila nods at Jean’s table. It’s only a little supercilious. “Thanks anyway. If you see him, let us know?”

Katelyn says something, probably in agreement.

Jean’s not listening. He looks out toward the wild grey sea. It’s beautiful, violent, angry as an ancient god. Across the waves, the clouds rumble and he wonders if they’ll see more lightning tonight. “I’ll check on him,” he finds himself saying. “I was going to head back early anyway. Give me ten minutes, I’ll text Aaron, let him know if Knox is in the room.”

The show of gratitude and relief on Sara’s face feels a little overdramatic. Knox is probably just hiding from the weather, probably too worried about ruining his stupidly perfect hair to come out tonight.

Still, the path back to their apartments can barely be seen through the downpour. He can’t help but check over the cliffs, just in case. Lightning bursts over the sea, blooms like a white flower, first one than another. The land and sky blanches with it, becoming an Escher painting - monochrome and illusory. Jean hurries his pace. He might enjoy storms, but he’d prefer to be inside and out of reach of any errant electricity.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he considers the prospect of a shower and shakes his head. There’s a large stone bath cut into the window of his room, one he’s been meaning to use, and he can’t think of any time like the present to have a long, luxurious loll. He imagines pouring one more glass of wine and filling that bath with piping hot water, scenting it with a little oil for his surf-sore muscles. He could watch the storm raging over the ocean from there.

But first he has to locate Knox. Almost as soon as unlocks the door and pushes through, something feels off-kilter. The lights are off. The balcony is closed. There’s nothing to suggest anyone is home.

“Knox?” He calls out. “Hey, Knox, you here?”

Silence. The only sound is the rattling rain on the windows. Jean’s brows knit together. _Is it possible that Knox went out after all?_

Crossing to the second bedroom, he wraps on the door. “Knox?”

_Maybe he fell asleep?_

Jean’s about to head back to his own room when more thunder cracks and he hears another sound. Something broken, something wounded. Ice seizes his stomach. He knows that sound and he can’t imagine it ever coming from Knox. Flashes of dark tunnels and darker faces rise in his memories, phantom hands and phantom pains crawling under his skin.

He turns towards the noise, feels his heart stutter. He wonders how he didn’t see Jeremy before. The blond is curled up below the breakfast bar and the stools, head tucked against his knees, hands over his head. His fingers dig into his scalp, tangle into his curls. Jean finds himself moving closer without thinking.

“Knox,” He says. “ _Mon Dieu_ , what’s wrong?”

Knox lifts his head tentatively, his eyes are the darkest they’ve ever been, the hazel almost lost as his pupils are blown wide with fear. “Moreau?” He says, the word heavy and thick on his tongue like he’s confused.

“Yes, it’s me,” Jean says, coming to crouch down next to this pale imitation of the sunshine boy. “Did something happen? What’s wrong?”

Any answer Knox might have given is swallowed by a flash and bang. The storm must be right on top of them. Knox lets out a horrible noise, something between a whine and a sob, his head ducking back down into his knees. His breaths come out uneven and far too fast.

“It’s the storm.” Jean glances around the room. It’s still gloomy in here, with only the one lamp on that he hit out of reflex upon entering. He can brighten things up; at least that would reduce the impact of the lightning. He stands.

“Don’t go,” Knox says. “Please…”

Jean looks back at him. Looks down at the face tilted up at him. Looks at the blown pupils, the gnawed lips, the creaking tension holding Knox’s body to ransom. This isn’t Jeremy Knox, owner of the brightest smile in Orange County. This isn’t Jeremy Knox, wooer of minds, collector of hearts. This man is terrified and small. Jean is sure if he so much as touched Jeremy now, he’d break into a million pieces. “Jeremy…” he says, taking a step back towards the terrified man. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright. I’m just turning on more lights. I’ll be right here the whole time.”

He gestures to the wall where the switches are, then across to the lamps. The thing is, Jean knows this kind of fear. He knows the tremor inducing, heartbreaking terror of the demons that live inside your head. He knows this panic because he carries his own, carefully bottled, horrors under his skin. So he backs away slowly, keeping eye contact with Jeremy as much as possible as he turns on every light he can before coming back to the breakfast bar. Firing off a quick text to Aaron to say he’s found their missing surfer and not to worry, he pushes aside the stools this time and crouches down so they’re eye to eye.

“How’s that?” He asks. “Do you think you can come out from under there? You can’t be comfortable.”

Jeremy’s response is to tremble. He’s still breathing too fast, still only half aware of what’s going on and half lost in whatever nightmares his fear has created. He leans closer, reaching for Jeremy’s wrists, slowly easing his hands away from where they snarl in his hair. As he goes to withdraw, Jeremy reaches back, twisting his hands so they’re clinging to Jean’s forearms. His fingers are like ice and oh-so-pale against Jean’s sun-bronzed skin.

“Don’t go,” he says again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jean promises. “I’m right here.”

It doesn’t escape him that Jeremy would likely cling to anyone right now - that this isn’t about him, or them, or anything that’s gone between them before. Jeremy just needs someone to take care of him, to ease him through this.

“Come on,” Jean says, coaxing. “Come out. Look at me, just look at me. You’re safe. You know it. Come out now.”

Keeping up a barrage of soft reassurances, Jean lures Jeremy out of the corner, catching him when he lets out a wounded sound and his legs wobble. He finds himself with both arms full and his mind skipping over itself, caught in the hopscotch of his own traumas. Jeremy is heavy, but he’s not holding him down. He’s gripping tight, but his fingers are a desperate man clinging to a life raft, not cruel and demanding. Drawing Jeremy to the sofa, he shifts them around slightly - moving hands to his elbows, away from his wrists; arranging Jeremy against his side, so he could be close without his weight bearing down.

“You’re okay,” he says. “You’re okay. It’ll be alright.”

He doesn’t know how many times he says it, doesn’t know how many times he soothes Jeremy’s heart rate down as the night crashes and roars around them. But he keeps talking, muttering little nothings about storms passing, about suns rising. At some point, he tells Jeremy about Marseilles and the rain there. The scent of wet, warm earth. The clatter on his window. He shares snippets of the life he had before his parents fell for the teachings of Tetsuji Moriyama and joined the Evermore commune. He talks about his escape, how it had been storming that night too and how he’d taken a minute to just feel the rain on his skin, freezing and brutal and wonderful.

“That was the moment I knew I was free,” he says. “Waiting at the bus stop, terrified someone would come after me. Then the rain hit my skin and I breathed the night air for the first time in thirteen years. I had thousands of miles left to run but I knew that was it, I was never going back.”

He keeps talking. Mostly nothings. Stories of gigs in the rain. Stories of the beach and the sun. Stories of Kevin, of Aaron and Katelyn and their strange start but genuine friendship, of Renee who he’d lived with for a year and tutored him so he could attend USC on scholarship. He talks and talks and slowly, so achingly slowly, Jeremy began to relax, to listen and hum little responses. Every time he did, his breath was warm on Jean’s neck and he couldn’t help but shiver.

The rain is still beating against the windows, but it’s been a while since the last clap of thunder or the last flash of lighting. He dares to hope the worst has past - that his adrenalin might wane and exhaustion let Jeremy fall into a more peaceful sleep.

“How are you feeling?” He asks. “I have coffee in the cupboard if you’d like one.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Stay,” he says.

“I’m not going anywhere. Do you want me to keep talking?”

This time there’s a small nod. It’s stunning how desperately Jean wishes to make Jeremy feel better. To be the one who brings him back from the edge.

“Alright,” he says. “What do you want me to tell you next? How about the time Kevin tried to get me into spinning?”

“You were talking about Evermore, before…”

Jean can’t help but tense. He had spoken about it only in the broadest strokes, half assuming that Jeremy wasn’t really paying attention. To know that he had been listening makes him feel like he’s just missed a step on the stairs, frisson in his skull like a tension headache. Of course, it’s understandable that Jeremy’s curiosity is piqued. Everyone’s is when they find out that he spent over a decade inside one of the most notorious cults on the east coast. Stories abound about Evermore, the Nest, the Moriyamas - of the mysterious rituals, the focus on health and fitness, their pamphlets on purity of mind, sanctity of body. There’s a morbid fascination that his messy, lurid tale inspires in people. Why would Knox be any different?

“You want to know more?” _Could he bring himself to talk about it if Jeremy asked?_

“I just…”

Jean braces himself.

“I didn’t know you were so scared. That you fled.”

There’s a whisper, a pause. None of Jean’s answers correspond to this statement. He glances down at the blond tucked against his side, the way Jeremy’s body folds against his ribs, his hips, his thighs. 

“I was terrified,” he says. “But I was more scared of staying than I was of leaving. That made the difference.”

“I don’t know why I’m scared of storms,” Jeremy says next. “I don’t… I’m sorry…I just…”

“You just are,” Jean tells him, soothing one hand along the plain of Jeremy’s arm. “You have a phobia. It’s okay. The storm will pass.”

Jeremy shivers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jean says. He means it. The number of times he’d been held - carried through his panic by Kevin or Renee or Aaron.

“I thought you hated me.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

“Still… I thought…”

Jeremy trails off as the wind rattles the glass in its frames. Jean knows the best thing he can do is keep him talking.

“What did you think?” He asks. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Nothing,” Jeremy says, as if the thought has slipped away. “Just thank you… for looking after me.I know you don’t like me. And here you are, putting up with all this.”

“I couldn’t exactly leave you. What kind of man would I be then? I’ve been where you are, had panic attacked for years. Still do sometimes,” Jean says. “Plus, I’m fairly certain you’re the one who doesn’t like _me_. What with the whole pretending not to know me thing.”

Jeremy makes a confused noise. “I don’t understand.”

“At that party. First year. And afterwards. You kept pretending like we hadn’t met.” Jean knows this isn’t the time or place, but if Knox is asking. “Kevin introduced us and for a second… It was my first time trying to make friends at USC and I know you wouldn’t have known that but I couldn’t leave the house for days after. I was…” He searched for the word. “I was devastated, humiliated. And then the next time I saw you it was the same. Over and over.”

“I don’t remember…”

Jean snorts. “Sure,” he says.

Jeremy can hear the coarseness in that one word and knows there’s something critical in his response. To explain though - well, his skin crawls with a sinister feeling, one that he’s tried to avoid for so long. The wind outside howls. The heat of Jean’s body is anchoring beside him. He decides to tell the truth.

“I don’t remember a lot of things…really,” he says, picking his words whilst his lungs rattle with his fear and the rain with fury. He grips tight onto Jean’s arms, squeezing as the room seems to quake. “I was in an accident. No one really knows about it. My first year of college. Or well, my first first year.”

He swallows. Can feel Jean’s attention now. It’s a palpable thing, as real as the pulse below his hands. “I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything from that day or really that whole year before it happened or the weeks following. It was after Katrina.”

“My dad’s a doctor so he felt it was his duty to take time to go out there and help. I wanted to go with him - I mean, that’s what they said, that I wanted to help too - soI took time off school and we went. But apparently, we were on a site and the building just collapsed. My dad was fine but I got hit… hit my head…”

The injury had been severe, crushing part of his skull and no one thought he was going survive, but he had. Hospitalised for nearly three months,in supervised care for longer, he’d all but dropped out of school, after being given a leave of indefinite absence. He healed, slowly, memory repairing what it could but never quite reaching where it had been before. When he finally went back to USC, it was as someone no one knew but everyone recognised, over a year behind where he should have started and completely lost as to how he would pull this off - until he’d learnt that his smile could hide all manner of failings. Including his broken brain.

“Anteroretrograde amnesia,” he says. “That’s what the doctors said. Partial inability to recall the recent past. I don’t remember stuff easily. It’s gotten better, being young and still plastic but… I don’t retain names or faces or conversations sometimes. I struggle to learn new things. I know it’s hard to believe but I never would have pretended not to know you. I can’t… you’re not forgettable. I would never want to make you feel that way.”

Jean tries to take it all in.

Tries and stumbles over all the details. He must have met Jeremy just a few weeks into their first year - he’d assumed because Jeremy knew so many people that he was a bit of a big name on campus. He’d never heard so much as a whisper about an accident or time out of school. “You hid this? All this time?”

“Teachers knew.” He sounds so so tired. “Some of them.”

“Kevin?”

“No,” Jeremy says. “No. We met a couple years before, when he first went to live with Coach Wymack. It was mostly online back then. I never told him.”

Jean doesn’t know what to say. He’s staring down at this man in his arms, wondering how he couldn’t have pieced together that something was wrong, how no one had noticed that his smile wasn’t fake so much as a defense. He’s looking at the thick, blond hair, wondering what scars it hides.

“Was it storming?” He asks.

A small questioning noise escapes Jeremy. Jean soothes a thumb over the inside of his wrist.

“When it happened?” He says, “Your accident.”

Jeremy shakes his head, chin dipping against Jean’s chest. He’s not shivering anymore. “No. I’ve always been scared of storms. When I was younger my dad would talk me through them.” A sigh passes his lips, flaring hot through Jean’s t-shirt. “We’d sit in the window and watch. He’d tell me stories of Tāwhirimātea and the divine wars that split the earth and sky.”

Jeremy remembers the rhythm of his father’s stories, the depth of his voice like the tales came from the most ancient of times. They’d been close then. After his accident, everything changed. Even if Kano had long since telling his son myths and legends to sooth his nerves on stormy nights, he had never stopped caring for his oldest son. After New Orleans, his guilt changed everything. He remained a good man, a loving father, but he couldn’t look his son in the eye, couldn’t accept the new limitations that Jeremy had.

Jean listens to Jeremy now, the slow words that feel stolen, senses the hollows of loss, the grief and frustration. He has never known a love like that of Jeremy’s family - because he can hear that too, how much Jeremy loves his father, his mother, his brothers and sisters, how much they love him back - but Jean understands what it is to feel suffocated under the weight of other people’s expectations.

“Everyone is so scared for me and I get it because I’m broken but… I need to live, you know?” Jeremy shifts, his fingers so hot now against Jean’s skin. “Do you know what they said about me? About who I was before?”

 _You’re not broken_ , he wants to say. _Of course, you’re not broken._ “Kevin always says you’re smart, funny.”

“Yeah, sounds right.” Jeremy’s hands tighten minutely. “They said I was a good kid. They talked about my kindness and my smile. I don’t think those are bad things. And they talked about my passion for life.”

“Those don’t sound like bad things at all.” _But you’re talking about yourself in the past tense._ He did that too sometimes. His therapist had a tendency to call him out on it.

“They want me to still be that person.”

“And you’re not?”

“I don’t know if I ever was.”

“You know, you’re incredibly existential for the one of us who isn’t French.”That made Jeremy laugh and Jean pretended that his chest didn’t bloom with warmth. “But if you must be maudlin,” he continues, keeping his tone light and teasing. “Do _you_ want be that person?”

“I want to make them happy. I can keep my smile on and try to be who they remember, even if I don’t.” Jeremy’s eyes flutter shut. He’s picturing his life behind his eyelids, trying to envisage the answer to this question and struggling to put it into words. “But sometimes, sometimes I just want to do as much living as I can before I lose it. I want to experience everything. I don’t want to hear stories about myself where I stayed safe. I want to know I was reckless and deliberate, that I had fun, that I loved wildly and abundantly. I want to hear the stories about passion and know that _that’s_ who I am. I’m still _me_. Just I healed back a bit wrong. I’d like them to see that. ”

_Oh._

“I get it,” Jean says. And he does. He really, really does. He knows that burning conflict inside himself, the ripping feeling of wanting to be one thing and knowing that the world expects another. “Leaving the Nest was a very different thing to what you went through but there were expectations about my recovery, assumptions on what I’d do, how I’d cope. I just wanted to work out who I was. How to be a person, on my own, without all of that…”

Like shadows on a cave wall, Jean conjures up the Nest in his mind's eye. Sometimes he feels like every detail is etched just under his eyelids: the black walls and the varnished floors, hard to stain, easy to mop. He still wakes up sometimes reciting rules, tears between his lashes as he remembers mockery and derision, the ritual abuse that came with showing even a hint of independence or confidence. He still forgets to eat, will lose track of what it means to be hungry after so many years where hunger meant when his stomach hurt and not before. He still struggles with too much silence and turns to his left sometimes, expecting there to be another person at his wing, his pair, because Ravens don’t survive on their own. He swallows.

“You didn’t heal wrong. You’re not broken,” Jean says. “You know that right? It’s been what, four, five, years? You’ve grown up. You’re allowed to change.”

Jeremy hums and Jean wonders if he’s crossed a line. “There hasn’t been any lightning in a while,” he notes. “How are you feeling?”

“Don’t know. Jittery. Empty.”

“I have some of those electrolyte drinks in the fridge if you want one. Or I can run out, get you something from Katelyn, she has a huge stash of snacks.”

“Stay,” Jeremy says.

Jean doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he says. “I’m here.”


	4. with my heart in your hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm has passed. The sun is back. The waves are full and deliciously exhausting. But when they can, his eyes will wander towards Jean in his beginner class. The way he’s improving is one thing, he’s catching smaller green waves now, but his smile is another. 

*

Achy neck. Stiff shoulders. His arm is numb. Jeremy wakes up, blinking, disoriented. His head holds an anguish that’s definitely dehydration and if he didn’t know better he’d assume a hangover’s to blame.

Jeremy inventories. His mind feels slow and disjointed, a not unfamiliar feeling. His body feels emptied, an orange skin after its been pulped - and it only takes another moment or two for him to know that it’s not just from yesterday’s waves. He’s not in his own bed, for one. He’s in the living room, for another. And there’s a very solid, very unconscious Jean Moreau with one arm and a leg slung across him that isn’t exactly unpleasant - far from it, really, Jean is a head taller than Jeremy and he feels strangely safe curled like this in his embrace, head tucked beneath his chin. It definitely isn’t expected though, and Jeremy long ago learnt to be wary of the unexpected.

He doesn’t move for a moment, choosing to breathe and let his memories percolate until they come back in some kind of story he can turn into sense. It’s Jean’s soft words that he remembers first - soothing and low like the moon over the Atlantic. The Frenchman was kind, he recalls, kind and understanding. He’d shared things about himself. He’d pulled Jeremy out of his terror, talked to him, stayed when he’d begged. The strangeness isn’t lost on him. They’ve always brought out the worst in each other… then he remembers why.

“Fuck,” he thinks, realising that he’s said it aloud when Jean stirs against his neck.

 _All this time…_ he thinks. _All this time Jean thought he’d just been cruel. No wonder he’d been so cold and rude and…_ He curses his brain, his stupid limitations, his own dishonesty. Then he curses his bad luck. Why did his roommate have to be Moreau? Life could have been simple for once. He could have had a real holiday.

 _But no, I’m fate’s bitch,_ he thinks and slowly, slowly begins to extricate himself from Jean’s arms. _And the least I can do is make the guy coffee._

“Jerr-amie,” Jean mumbles, accent thick with sleep. “Ça va?”

“Coffee?”

Jean makes a noise and it goes straight to Jeremy’s gut. He glances down, let’s his gaze trace over sharp cheekbones, the tattooed skin, the full lips that are chapped from weeks in the wind and spume.Asleep, he doesn’t look so arrogant, so disaffected. He looks different. _Noble._

Mugs are retrieved. Kettles are boiled twice. Jeremy takes the cafetière to the windows and stares out at the squalling sea. From here it seems like the waves and sky are all one fabric as if the clouds have sunk into the water and the sea is licking up into the heavens. There’s no chance of surfing today for the likes of Moreau or Katelyn. Even the most seasoned surfers would seriously consider the odds on a day like today. Part of Jeremy yearns to go out there, another trembles when the wind slams against the windows yet again. At least the rain is lighter now, more like the patter of paws than the stampede of last night.

He hears a snuffle, a shuffling, the soft sigh that Jean makes when he has his first sip of coffee. Perhaps, being land-bound might not be such a bad thing.

Turning to Jean, tousled and strangely lovely in the morning light, he says, “I told you about my brain.” And immediately wishes that hadn’t been the first thing out of his mouth.

“I won’t tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jean replies. His expression is quickly reassembling, a mask sliding into place.

Jeremy doesn’t know how he missed that before. His chest tightens, constricts. He doesn’t want the mask. He wants to see the man who spoke to him in the dark, who drew him from his fears without trying to fix them.

“I just meant… I’m sorry if I don’t remember all the details. I think I have most of it but I never really know so…” His words trip over themselves in their rush to get out. “Thank you though. I know that you helped me last night. That you talked me through all of that.” He waves his hand, shrugs, looks at Jean’s chin and then at the mug of coffee in his hands. “It would have been much harder without you so, yeah, thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Jean says. “And… anything you don’t remember, I can tell you, if you want.” 

“I…” He really doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I don’t know…”

“It’s up to you. Only if it’ll help.”

It might, but no one’s done that for Jeremy in a very long time. Plus he has another thing to say first. “I’m sorry too. Again. For first year. I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

“I am too. For assuming.” Jean pauses. His eyes are dark and intense. “You know, I think perhaps this is one time where a new start would make a lot of sense.”

“A new start?”

“Hi,” Jean says. “I’m Jean Moreau. It’s nice to meet you.”

***

Jeremy can’t stop noticing Jean.

The storm has passed. The sun is back. The waves are full and deliciously exhausting.

But when they can, his eyes will wander towards Jean in his beginner class.The way he’s improving is one thing, he’s catching smaller green waves now, but his smile is another.There’s the small proud quirk of achievement, the wry pull of humour, the wide grin that spells mischief. So many smiles that he never noticed because all he could see was the smug, closed-off asshole that he had been so instrumental in creating.

Jean laughs far more than Jeremy noticed before too, perhaps because it’s never a full-bellied guffaw so much as a rough chuckle, a curving mouth and flash of teeth. But his favourite thing is seeing how this crinkles the swallow tattoo on Jean’s cheek, how his laugh so often exposes the wings over his throat as his head tilts back and his body opens. There was a moment on the beach as Aaron was wrestled onto a camel ride with Katelyn where Jean was all but sprawled in the sand, all limbs and all angles, helpless with laughter and all Jeremy had managed to think was: _incredible_. 

Their little groups now gather together in the evenings, wary at first but warm by now. They drink pilsner and Moroccan mint cocktails, devour the various tagines with their knees knocking and their fingers brushing over the couscous spoons. At night, Jeremy walks back to their apartments with Jean and Aaron and Katelyn.

They talk constantly: confide over coffee in the morning, sit on the balcony late at night watching the low moon. Under high skies and dim rooms, Jeremy notices the colour in Jean’s dark eyes - the warm black of them that shimmers grey in the sea light and glosses amber under the candles of the Hash Point bar.

Jeremy has never been known before. No one has ever been given his secret. And no one has ever so gently cared for it before. Where his family go to extremes - either loudly ignoring his memory issues or stepping in before he even has a chance to forget - Jean patiently reminds him of small things when prompted, offers a nudge when directions escape him or names slip out of reach. Appreciation isn’t a strong enough word, nor is gratitude. At times it’s mortifying. At times it’s a familiar thrill that he didn’t realise he’d missed.

Laila has started giving him looks. She knows what he won’t admit to. It amuses her the same way it terrifies him.

He knows he’s a goner when he wakes up and curls towards a person who isn’t beside him. Even his dreams have noticed Jean Moreau.

***

Jean rubs sunscreen into Jeremy’s shoulders, his hands working methodically over the muscles and ridges of his skin. He’s taken his time, admiring the intricate tattoos as he always does. The tide is turning and the waves small enough for none of them to mind an extra hour or two on the shore. So Jean slides his hands over Jeremy’s arms and back until really he has no excuse to continue.

“You’re done,” he says, shuffling back.

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, tilting his head towards Jean. It’s a movement reminiscent of a cat stretching towards the sun. “Did you put enough on your nose?”

“Pfft. You saw me use the fifty already.”

“And your nose is still pink.”

“ _Gros_ , you’re a nuisance.” But he accepts the tube when Jeremy passes it over.

Jean knows something has shifted between them - that Jeremy is working things out in his head, trying to understand their fragile friendship or whatever they’re calling the new connection between them. After years of watching his back, his every move, he noticed immediately how Jeremy’s attention shifted and deepened day by day.

 _For someone who kept a secret for so long,_ Jean finds himself thinking, _he is not subtle. Far from it._

But he doesn’t mind. He’s in no rush to put a definition on whatever’s growing between them either: friendship, companionship, something else.

So what if he’d always harboured something of a crush, even when he thought Jeremy was an arse? So what if he thought him to be one of the most gorgeous men he’d ever met, one of the smartest and most frustrating and brilliant?

No matter what form their future took, he can still appreciate Jeremy’s slow exploration, the way he paused before nudging at one boundary or another. It gave him time to think too. And that was enough for now.

 _There’s no rush_ , he tells himself, _even if the end of their holiday is in sight_. But a small part of him wonders whether he should lay out a few cards himself, just to let Jeremy know his hand.

“Look at those two,” Jeremy says with a smile. He’s watching Laila and Sara in the distance, chasing each other through the surf. They’re too far away to hear from their perch in the dunes, but it’s clear to see they’re laughing.

“They’re very happy,” says Jean.

“Yeah.”

Jeremy sounds wistful, Jean is almost tempted to file it away but the sun is warm and the sky is clear and he asks instead. “You’ve dated before. I used to see you with girls, boys, around campus.”

“Yeah but they all thought I was faultless,” Jeremy says, no hesitation with his answer. “I didn’t want to correct them.”

“You never thought about it? Talking to them?”

“No. Never. None of them were people I really trusted. Like… _I liked them_. I could maybe… have liked them more? I dunno. But they didn’t see me really and I guess I didn’t want them to. I liked that they liked me and that they thought I was normal and whole.”

“You are whole.”

“But not normal?”

“About as far from normal as anyone I’ve met,” Jean says. “That’s a good thing.” _You’re extraordinary._

Jeremy laughs. “You make me wonder why I tried so hard.”

“It was the right choice for you at the time. I wouldn’t doubt yourself. If you’re not ready to be out then you’re not ready to be out.”

“You also make it sound so simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jeremy thinks. His head cocks. “Maybe? It feels like it changes everything when I’m the same person.”

“What does it change?”

“Now you sound like my therapist.”

“That’s probably a good thing. I’m about to start training to be one.”

“No way, that’s incredible,” Jeremy really sounds delighted and Jean finds himself smiling. He’s proud of his own decision, proud that one day he’ll be able to help kids like him, proud that he’s made a choice and that he’s looking towards a future that he never hoped to have. “Does that mean you’re staying in school?”

Jean nods. “Postgrad and I’m also working part-time in a rehab clinic. So a few more years in California at least.”

“That’s great,” Jeremy says. “No, that’s so great. You’ll be amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not. It’s adorable. Do you find it hard to take a compliment, Moreau? Do you find it difficult to hear that I think you’re incredible for wanting to become a therapist? That I think you’ll be brilliant at it?”

“Maybe I just need more suncream.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Jeremy flops on his back. “Can the waves please come back now? We’ve only got a week and a bit left.”

“Just a week for me.”

“I keep forgetting you were here before I was…” Jeremy frowns, drives his fingers into the sand. Jean watches his hands scrunching and unscrunching. “Would you… want to get a drink maybe? When we’re both back?”

Jean’s amusement rises. “A drink,” he says.

“Yeah like a beer or a coffee or whatever?”

“Sure,” he says, “It’s a date.”

Jeremy stills. Jean realises what he’s said. He would backtrack but perhaps this is as good a time as any to see what Jeremy’s thinking.

“Do you date?”

 _Okay, that wasn’t the reaction he was expecting._ “Excuse me?”

“I mean… sorry that came out… I just… do you date? We’ve talked about me but you’ve never said if you had someone back home or if there was anybody you liked or anything and you’re here with Aaron and Katelyn so I guess—”

“Slow down. Breathe. I date,” Jean says. He thinks of the people he’s gone out with in California, amends what he means: “Or I’ve tried dating. Some of the things that happened at the Nest mean I’m slow to progress with physical intimacy.” He had a long way to go with his body image, his sense of independence and guilt and desire. “I’m still working through triggers. But yes, I date.”

A cloud passes over Jeremy’s face, his expressions growing momentarily dark. “You know I’d ruin them if I could,” he says. “The Moriyamas. Your parents. All of them for hurting you.”

Jean only smiles. He’s glad to know that there’s very little chance of this sunshine boy ever meeting the darkness of the Evermore commune. He’ll never have to face those endless tunnels or monsters that rule there. The sentiment is still meaningful, though. Between his slowly growing group of friends, Jean knows he’s not alone anymore. He can fight his battles because they’re all at his back. “So where will you take me for our date,” he says, tone teasing, pleased when he sees it’s Jeremy’s turn to blush.

“Uh…”

“Think about it,” Jean says. He scoops up a handful of sand and pushes it over the top of Jeremy’s. Their fingers brush. Jeremy’s eyes jump to his, startled, lips parting. But he can see Sara and Laila jogging back towards them and knows Jeremy will need time to consider what’s now so openly on offer. “No rush.”

“Jean,” Jeremy says.

“And no pressure.”

“But—”

“SURFS UP!” Sara yells.

Laila’s laughing too. “Come on, let’s get out there!”

The moment passes. Jean pulls his hand away, tips of his fingers tingling. The way Jeremy’s eyes linger on the sand makes him hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s done the right thing. He leans back, tips his face sunwards.

“I’ll stay back and wait for Aaron and Katelyn, you go ahead.” He can feel Jeremy’s attention. “Seriously,I’ll catch up.”

He really, really hopes he’s not messed this up. He doesn’t think he has… has he?

***

_No rush. No pressure._

_It’s a date._

_Think about it._

Alone on the balcony, Jeremy watches as the sea and sky soften into dusk. The colours are the dreamy haze that he’s come to associate with this part of the world - crepuscular shades of dried roses and powder blues, yellows so faint they seem smudged. The waves are a constant roar, the wind fresh with salt and tangy with spice. Familiar now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be somewhere quite this unreal again. Everything in Taghazout feels liminal, detached from reality, refreshing and safe. Everything, except Jean.

He thought about their hands in the sand, how the touch of their skin was so powerful it seemed to control his body. How for a moment he was sure his heart was beating in time to Jean’s pulse. How he couldn’t breathe when Jean pulled away.

“I’m such an idiot,” he tells the wind. “When did this even happen?”

But that’s a stupid question. He might not be able to pinpoint the minute or the hour or the day or even the month that he first thought of Jean Moreau as attractive, but he does know that if it hadn’t been for their epic misunderstanding right at the start, he’d have admitted to it far sooner. He’s always been aware of Jean - perhaps for the wrong reasons - how tall he is, how composed, the high arch of his cheekbones, his aquiline nose and canny-bright eyes. He’s the kind of guy that’s hard to miss. And there’d always been that friction too - the gut-curling, toe-clenching tension they’d labelled animosity. _Was it really four years_ , he huffed to himself, _treading_ _the fine line and all that_. _Could it really all be resolved in just a few days?_

“Ready to go?” He hears from behind him. Turning, he’s in time to see Jean muss his shower-damp hair in the mirror. It make him smile. So many small self-conscious gestures, he would never have expected even a week ago.

“Yes,” he says. “Actually, no. Can we talk?”

Something like guilt passes over Jean’s face. “Of course. About earlier?”

Nodding, Jeremy waits for Jean to come closer, to join him overlooking the ocean. He’s about to speak when Jean makes a hopeless gesture with his shoulders instead.

“I’m sorry if I made things uncomfortable,” he says. “I realise you may have just been polite, asking about drinks when we’re back in California. I shouldn’t have put pressure on you to make this more than it needs to be. We can pretend that conversation never happened if it helps.”

“No,” says Jeremy, aghast and amused at once. “God no, no. You know, I thought I was the king of overthinking, but I really just meant talk.”

Jean shoots him a look, wry and self-deprecating. “About what…?”

“It’s, well, the opposite really. I wanted to know if you meant it. That you maybe _liked_ _me_ liked me, not just as friends but as more, maybe.”

“I do,” Jean says. “I like you. And it’s not that I don’t think we could be just friends. I believe that could work well for us if you prefer.”

“I think we could be friends too.”

“Then okay, we will be friends.” Jean doesn’t sound disappointed but there’s a new crease around his mouth that Jeremy doesn’t miss.

“You’re the most direct person I’ve ever met,” Jeremy says.

Jean shrugs and Jeremy fills in the blank where the Nest has left its imprint. He’s heard by now how Tetsuji would expect them to stand in the centre of a circle, unresponsive and silent as everyone else in his raven cult shouted obscenities, spat and screamed and mocked. It makes so much sense now, the way Jean closes himself down in an instant, locking himself away in the time it takes to blink. And it explains why, now he’s learnt to speak his mind in California, he doesn’t see the point in games. Jeremy likes this about him but wishes it hadn’t come with so high a cost.

“I don’t mean that we should stop there though. If you want to explore what else there could be here, then I’m up for it too.”

Jean’s right eyebrow lifts. “Oh really?”

“Yes.” Jeremy watches the light and shadow on Jean’s face. The way the sun is falling has washed his skin in colour, lifting the hollows of his cheeks and the curve of his lips. “Perhaps, can I… can we…” his hands slip forward of their own accord, finding the hem of Jean’s t-shirt. It is soft and blue, bringing out the grey in his eyes.

Jean wavers, rocking forwards under his touch. “What are you asking, Jeremy?”

“Will you kiss me?” he asks. Or sort of asks, the words are mashed together and he’s transfixed by the way Jean just smirked and he’s reaching up to catch Jean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, stroking along the hard line of his jaw.

He feels Jean’s _yes_ rather than hears it. Their mouths graze in the most tentative whisper. But it’s like the creep of the sun over the horizon in the morning, the red stain of it on the ocean, simple but inevitable. They press closer and firmer. He can feel the heat of Jean’s hips against his knuckles, still bunched in his t-shirt. He can feel Jean’s lips, warm and dry and tasting vaguely of salt and coffee. Jeremy hums, pulls back minutely, just long enough to catch the tremble of Jean’s lashes as his eyes drift shut. He releases Jean’s chin just long enough to slide his hand into the back of his dark hair and pull him in again.

Their kisses aren’t tremulous. They’re free from hesitancy or shyness. Whatever questions they were working out before feel answered by the slide of their mouths, their bodies, the sharing of their breath. When Jean’s hands cradle Jeremy’s throat, when the inches between them are long gone and dusk long risen, there is only one feeling, that of desire, the absolute surety that this is where things were building all along. 

“To think, we could have been doing this for years,” Jeremy muses. 

“We’re doing it now,” says Jean. His forehead is pressed to Jeremy’s temple, voice a rumble in his ear.

“We are,” Jeremy agrees, pressing his smile against Jean’s throat.

“Although I’m sure by now our friends will be missing us for drinks.”

“They can miss us some more.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh huh.”

“And what would you have us do instead?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“So do I.”

And with that Jean kisses him again.

***

All too soon, it’s their last day on the water.

The six of them paddle out on the waves together and sit on their boards, bobbing with the sky on one horizon, Morocco on the other. Bronze skinned and salty haired, their conversation rises and falls with the sea beneath them, hands trailing on the surface. They talk about plans, about futures, about nothing and everything. When the sun grows too hot on their skin, they slide down into the water to cool off.

“This is my favourite bit,” Laila says. “This is what it’s all about.”

“I want to always remember this,” says Sara.

“I want to come back,” says Aaron.

There’s a collective hum of agreement. Jeremy looks at Jean and Jean looks at Jeremy. Their smiles are small but unguarded. This afternoon will end. The sun will set. Tomorrow, Jean will board a plane with Aaron and Katelyn, whilst Jeremy will finish the week before following him back to California. Laila and Sarah will continue their trip through Morocco. They all will leave this shore behind.

But there is a contentedness in the movement of time.

Sure as the tide, rising and falling beneath them, they know this isn’t an ending. There will be drinks and summer evenings and crowded bars in different cities, on different coasts, where the salt air is hot with industry. Jean drinks in the sight of Jeremy, the lines of him, the way the sunshine on the water casts dapples along his cheeks.

Jeremy hooks his little finger around Jean’s, using the hold to slide himself and his board closer over the water.

He leans into Jean’s shoulder, breath ghosting over damp skin.

“Ready to head in?”

Jean tugs him closer still, freeing his fingers to slide his palms over Jeremy’s shoulders. “I think so,” he says.

Jeremy tilts his head. Their lips are so close.

“Drinks on the last one to get to shore,” Jean suggests.

Jeremy laughs. “Sure. It’s a da—”

But Jean shoves Jeremy off his board into the water before he can reply. The blond comes up spluttering as Jean paddles furiously into position.

Jeremy grins as he pulls himself back onto his board and gives chase, following the laughter that is clear and deep and endless. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, feels, hit me! I live for your comments and would adore hearing from you. 
> 
> Listen to the playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5fTN0lFmceGO8GuBLuStHy?si=0VVJenycSRq2wMKbiCfsnA
> 
> Find the aesthetic: https://pin.it/3vXQOmh


End file.
